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THE 
ELDEST SON 




JOHN GALSWORTHY 








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PLAYS BY 

JOHN GALSWORTHY 



THE SILVER BOX 

JOY 

STRIFE 

JUSTICE 

THE LITTLE DREAM 



THE ELDEST SON 
A DOMESTIC DRAMA IN THREE ACTS 



THE ELDEST SON 

A DOMESTIC DRAMA IN THREE ACTS 



BY 
JOHN GALSWORTHY 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1912 






Copyright, 1912, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 




£CI.D 



31465 






AUTHOR'S NOTE 

The Eldest Son was written in the early months of 
1909. Accidents happy and unhappy have pre- 
vented its performance earlier than November 0/ 1912. 



Jackson, the hutler 
Charles, a footman 

TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 
8 at the Cheshires' country house, in one of the shires. 

ACT I. SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. 

SCENE 11. The hall; after dinner. 

ACT 11. Lady Cheshire's warning room; after breakfast. 

ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time. 

A night elapses between Acts 1. and II. 




£CI.D 



31465 






PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

Sir William Cheshire, a baronet 

Lady Cheshire, his wife 

Bill, their eldest son 

Harold, their second son 

Ronald Keith {in the Lancers), their son-in-law 

Christine {his wife), their eldest daughter 

Dot, their second daughter 

Joan, their third daughter 

Mabel Lanfarne, their guest 

The Reverend John Latter, engaged to Joan 

Old Studdenham, the head-keeper 

Freda Studdenham, the lady's-maid 

Young Dunning, the under-keeper 

Rose Taylor, a village girl 

Jackson, the butler 

Charles, a footman 

TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 
8 at the Cheshires' country house, in one of the shires. 

ACT I. SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. 

SCENE II. The hall; after dinner. 

ACT II. Lady Cheshire's miming room; after breakfast. 

ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time. 

A night elapses between Acts I. and II. 



sc. I THE ELDEST SON 5 

Freda. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage- 
managing. 

Christine. I do hate learning a part. Thanks 
awfully for unpacking. Any news ? 

Freda. [In the same quicks dull voice] The under- 
keeper. Dunning, won't marry Rose Taylor, after 
aU. 

Christine. What a shame! But I say that's serious. 
I thought there was — she was — I mean 

Freda. He's taken up with another girl, they say. 

Christine. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you 
know if Mr. Bill's come? 

Freda. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six- 
forty. 

Ronald Keith comes slowly downy a weathered 
firm-lipped man, in evening dress, with eyelids 
half drawn over his keen eyes, and the air of a 
horseman, 

Keith. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, 
your father missed a wigging this morning when they 
drew blank at Warnham's spinney. Where's that litter 
of little foxes ? 

Freda. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Cap- 
tain Keith. 

Keith. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? 
What? 

Christine. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. 
He's been here since the flood. 

Keith. There's more ways of killing a cat — eh, 
Freda? 



6 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Christine. [Moving with her husband towards the 
drawing-room] Young Dunning won't marry that girl, 
Ronny. 

Keith. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir 
William'll never keep a servant who's made a scandal 
in the village, old girl. Bill come ? 

As they disappear from the hally John Latter 

in a clergyman's evening dress, comes sedately 

downstairs, a tall, rather pale young man, with 

something in him, as it were, both of heaven, 

and a drawing-room. He passes Freda with a 

formal little nod. Harold, a fresh-cheeked, 

cheery -looldng youth, comes down, three steps 

at a time. 

Harold. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. 

Let's have a sniff! For Miss Lanfarne? Bill come 

down yet ? 

Freda. No, Mr. Harold. 

Harold crosses the hall, whistling, and follows 
Latter into the drawing-room. There is the 
sound of a scuffle above, and a voice crying: 
*'Shut up. Dot !'* And Joan comes down screiv- 
ing her head back. She is pretty and small, 
with large clinging eyes. 
Joan. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast. 
Dot! 

Freda. Quite, Miss Joan. 

Dot's face, like a full moon, appears over the 
upper banisters. She too comes running down, 
a frank figure, with the face of a rebel. 



sc. I THE ELDEST SON 7 

Dot. You little being ! 

Joan. [Flying towards the drawing-room, is overtaken 
at the door] Oh! Dot! You're pinching! 

As they disappear into the drawing-room, Ma- 
bel Lanfarne, a tall girl with a rather charm- 
ing Irish face, comes slowly down. And at sight 
of her Freda's whole figure becomes set and 
meaning-full. 
Freda. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady. 
Mabel. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] 
How sweet! [Fastening the roses] And how are you, 
Freda.? 

Freda. Very well, thank you. 

Mabel. And your father.? Hope he's going to let 
me come out with the guns again. 

Freda. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure. 
Mabel. Ye-es! I haven't forgotten his face — last 
time. 

Freda. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to 
stand with than Mr. Harold, or Captain Keith.? 
Mabel. He didn't touch a feather, that day. 
Freda. People don't when they're anxious to do their 
best. 

A gong sounds. And Mabel Lanfarne, giving 
Freda a rather inquisitive stare, moves on to the 
drawing-room. Left alone without the roses, 
Freda still lingers. At the slamming of a door 
above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back 
against the stairs. Bill runs down, and comes 
on her suddenly. He is a tall, good-looking 



8 THE ELDEST SON act i 

edition of his father, with the same stubborn 

look of veiled choler. 

Bill. Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] 

What's the matter ? [Then at some sound he looks round 

uneasily and draws away from her] Aren't you glad to 

see me ? 

Freda. I've something to say to you, Mr. Bill. 
After dinner. 

Bill. Mister ? 

She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And 
Bill, who stands frowning and looking after 
her, recovers himself sharply as the drawing- 
room door is opened, and Sir William and 
Miss Lanfarne com£ forth, followed by 
Keith, Dot, Harold, Christine, Latter, 
and Joan, all leaning across each other, and 
talking. By herself, behind them, comes Lady 
Cheshire, a refined-looking woman of fifty, 
with silvery dark hair, and an expression at 
once gentle, and ironic. They move across the 
hall towards the dining-room. 

Sir William. Ah! BiU. 

Mabel. How do you do ? 

Keith. How are you, old chap ? 

Dot. [gloomily] Do you know your part ? 

Harold. Hallo, old man! 

Christine gives her brother a flying kiss. Joan 
and Latter pau^e and look at him shyly with- 
out speech. 



sc. II THE ELDEST SON 9 

Bill. [Putting his hand on Joan's shoulder] Good 
luck, you two! Well mother? 

Lady Cheshire. Well, my dear boy! Nice to see 
you at last. What a long time! 

She draws his arm through hers^ and they move 
towards the dining-room. 

The curtain falls. 
The curtain rises again at once. 



SCENE II 

Christine, Lady Cheshire, Dot, Mabel Lanfarne, 
and Joan, are returning to the hall after dinner. 

Christine, [in a low voice] Mother, is it true about 
young Dunning and Rose Taylor ? 

Lady Cheshire. I'm afraid so, dear. 

Christine. But can't they be 

Dot. Ah! ah-h! [Christine and her mother are 
sUent] My child, I'm not the young person. 

Christine. No, of course not — only — [nodding to- 
wards Joan and Mabel]. 

Dot. Look here! This is just an instance of what I 
hate. 

Lady Cheshire. My dear ? Another one ? 

Dot. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't 
understand, because you know you do. 

Christine. Instance ? Of what ? 

Joan and Mabel have ceased talking, and listen, 
still at the fire. 



10 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Dot. Humbug, of course. Why should you want 
them to marry, if he's tired of her ? 

Christine. [Ironically] Well! If your imagination 
doesn't carry you as far as that! 

Dot. When people marry, do you believe they ought 
to be in love with each other? 

Christine. [With a shrug] That's not the point. 

Dot. Oh ? Were you in love with Ronny ? 

Christine. Don't be idiotic! 

Dot. Would you have married him if you hadn't 
been? 

Christine. Of course not! 

Joan. Dot! You are! 

Dot. Hallo! my little snipe! 

Lady Cheshire. Dot, dear! 

Dot. Don't shut me up, mother! [To Joan.] Are 
you in love with John? [Joan turns hurriedly to the 
fire.] Would you be going to marry him if you were 
not? 

Christine. You are a brute. Dot. 

Dot. Is Mabel in love with — whoever she is in love 
with? 

Mabel. And I wonder who that is. 

Dot. Well, would you marry him if you weren't ? 

Mabel. No, I would not. 

Dot. Now, mother; did you love father? 

Christine. Dot, you really are awful. 

Dot. [Rueful and detached] Well, it is a bit too thick, 
perhaps. 

Joan. Dot! 



sen THE ELDEST SON 11 

Dot. Well, mother, did you — I mean quite calmly ? 

Lady Cheshire. Yes, dear, quite calmly. 

Dot. Would you have married him if you hadn't? 
[Lady Cheshire shakes her head] Then we're all 
agreed! 

Mabel. Except yourself. 

Dot. [Grimly] Even if I loved him, he might think 
himself lucky if I married him. 

Mabel. Indeed, and I'm not so sure. 

Dot. [Making a face at her] What I was going to 

Lady Cheshire. But don't you think, dear, you'd 
better not ? 

Dot. Well, I won't say what I was going to say, but 
what I do say is — Why the devil 

Lady Cheshire, Quite so. Dot! 

Dot. [A little disconcerted.] If they're tired of each 
other, they ought not to marry, and if father's going to 
make them 

Christine. You don't understand in the least. It's 
for the sake of the 

Dot. Out with it, Old Sweetness! The approaching 
infant! God bless it! 

There is a sudden silence, for Keith and Latter 
are seen coming from the dining-room. 

Latter. That must be so, Ronny. 

Keith. No, John; not a bit of it! 

Latter. You don't think ! 

Keith. Good Gad, who wants to think after dinner! 

Dot. Come on! Let's play pool. [She turns at the 
billiard-room door.] Look here! Rehearsal to-morrow is 



12 THE ELDEST SON act i 

directly after breakfast; from "Eceles enters breath- 
less" to the end. 

Mabel. Whatever made you choose "Caste," Dot? 
You know it's awfully difficult. 

Dot. Because it's the only play that's not too ad- 
vanced. [The girls all go into the billiard-room. 

Lady Cheshire. Where's Bill, Ronny? 

Keith. [With a grimace] I rather think Sir William 
and he are in Committee of Supply — Mem-Sahib. 

Lady Cheshire. Oh! 

She looks uneasily at the dining-room; then fol- 
lows the girls out. 

Latter. [In the tone of one resuming an argument] 
There can't be two opinions about it, Ronny. Young 
Dunning's refusal is simply indefensible. 

Keith. I don't agree a bit, John. 

Latter. Of course, if you won't listen. 

Keith. [Clipping a cigar] Draw it mild, my dear 
chap. We've had the whole thing over twice at least. 

Latter. My point is this 

Keith. [Regarding Latter quizzically with his half- 
closed eyes] I know — I know — but the point is, how far 
your point is simply professional. 

Latter. If a man wrongs a woman, he ought to right 
her again. There's no answer to that. 

Keith. It all depends. 

Latter. That's rank opportunism. 

Keith. Rats! Look here — Oh! hang it, John, one 
can't argue this out with a parson. 

Latter. [Frigidly] Why not? 



sc. II THE ELDEST SON 13 

Harold. [Wfio has entered from the dining-room] 
Pull devil, pull baker! 

Keith. Shut up, Harold! 

Latter. "To play the game" is the religion even of 
the Army. 

Keith. Exactly, but what is the game ? 

Latter. What else can it be in this case ? 

Keith. You're too puritanical, young John. You 
can't help it — line of country laid down for you. All 
drag-huntin'! What! 

Latter. [With concentration] Look here! 

Harold. [Imitating the action of a man pulling at a 
horse's head] *Come hup, I say, you hugly beast!' 

Keith. [To Latter] You're not going to draw me, 
old chap. You don't see where you'd land us all. [He 
smokes calmly] 

Latter. How do you imagine vice takes its rise? 
From precisely this sort of thing of young Dunning's, 

Keith. From human nature, I should have thought, 
John. I admit that I don't like a fellow's leavin' a girl 
in the lurch; but I don't see the use in drawin' hard and 
fast rules. You only have to break 'em. Sir William 
and you would just tie Dunning and the girl up together, 
willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but 
there'll be the deuce to pay in a year's time. You can 
take a horse to the water, you can't make him drink. 
Latter. I entirely and absolutely disagree with you. 
Harold. Good old John! 

Latter. At all events we know where your princi- 
ples take you. 



14 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Keith. [Rather dangerously] Where, please ? [Harold 
turns up his eyes, and points downwards] Dry up, 
Harold! 

Latter. Did you ever hear the story of Faust ? 
Keith. Now look here, John; with all due respect 
to your cloth, and all the politeness in the world, you 
may go to — blazes. 

Latter. Well, I must say, Ronny — of all the rude 

boors [He turns towards the billiard-room. 

Keith. Sorry I smashed the glass, old chap. 

Latter passes out. There comes a mingled sound 
through the opened door, of female voices, laugh- 
ter, and the click of billiard balls, clipped off by 
the suMen closing of the door. 
Keith. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a par- 
son puts one's back up! Because you know I agree 
with him really; young Dunning ought to play the 
game; and I hope Sir William'U make him. 

The butler Jackson has entered from the door 
under the stairs followed by the keeper Stud- 
DENHAM, a man between fifty and sixty, in a 
full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches, 
and gaiters; he has a steady self-respecting weath- 
ered face, with blue eyes and a short grey beard, 
which has obviously once been red. 
Keith. Hullo! Studdenham! 

Studdenham. [Touching his forehead] Evenin', 
Captain Keith. 

Jackson. Sir William still in the dining-room with 
Mr. Bill, sir? 



sc. II THE ELDEST SON 15 

Harold. [With a grimace] He is, Jackson. 

Jackson goes out to the dining-room. 

Keith. You've shot no pheasants yet, Studdenham ? 

Studdenham. No, sir. Only birds. We'll be doin' 
the spinneys and the home covert while you're down. 

Keith. I say, talkin' of spinneys 

He breaks off sharply, and goes out ivith Harold 
into the hilliard-room. Sir William enters 
from the dining-room, applying a gold tooth- 
pick to his front teeth. 

Sir William. Ah! Studdenham. Bad business this, 
about young Dunning! 

Studdenham. Yes, Sir William. 

Sir William. He definitely refuses to marry her? 

Studdenham. He does that. 

Sir William. That won't do, you know. What rea- 
son does he give ? 

Studdenham. Won't say other than that he don't 
want no more to do with her. 

Sir William. God bless me! That's not a reason, 
I can't have a keeper of mine playing fast and loose in 
the village like this. [Turning to Lady Cheshire, who 
has come in from the billiard-room] That affair of young 
Dunning's, my dear. 

Lady Cheshire. Oh! Yes! I'm 50 sorry, Studden- 
ham. The poor girl! 

Studdenham. [Respectfully] Fancy he's got a feeling 
she's not his equal, now, my lady. 

Lady Cheshire. [To herself] Yes, I suppose he /las 
made her his superior. 



16 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Sir William. What? Eh! Quite! Quite! I was 
just telling Studdenham the fellow must set the matter 
straight. We can't have open scandals in the village. 
If he wants to keep his place he must marry her at 
once. 

Lady Cheshire. [To her husband in a low voice] Is 
it right to force them? Do you know what the girl 
wishes, Studdenham? 

Studdenham. Shows a spirit, my lady — says she'll 
have him — willin' or not. 

Lady Cheshire. A spirit ? I see. If they marry like 
that they're sure to be miserable. 

Sir William. What! Doesn't follow at all. Besides, 
my dear, you ought to know by this time, there's an un- 
written law in these matters. They're perfectly well 
aware that when there are consequences, they have to 
take them. 

Studdenham. Some o' these young people, my lady, 
they don't put two and two together no more than an 
old cock pheasant. 

Sir William. I'll give him till to-morrow. If he re- 
mains obstinate, he'll have to go; he'll get no character, 
Studdenham. Let him know what I've said. I like 
the fellow, he's a good keeper. I don't want to lose 
him. But this sort of thing I won't have. He must toe 
the mark or take himself off. Is he up here to-night ? 

Studdenham. Hangin' partridges, Sir William. Will 
you have him in ? 

Sin William. [Hesitating] Yes — ^yes. I'll see him. 

Studdenham. Good-night to you, my lady. 



sc. II THE ELDEST SON 17 

Lady Cheshire. Freda's not looking well, Studden- 
ham. 

Studdenham. She's a bit pernickitty with her food, 
that's where it is. 

Lady Cheshire. I must try and make her eat. 

Sir William. Oh! Studdenham. We'll shoot the 
home covert first. What did we get last year ? 

Studdenham. [Producing the game-book; but with- 
out reference to it] Two hundred and fifty-three pheas- 
ants, eleven hares, fifty-two rabbits, three woodcock, 
sundry. 

Sir William. Sundry ? Didn't Include a fox did it ? 
[Gravely] I was seriously upset this morning at Warn- 
ham's spinney 

Studdenham. [Very gravely] You don't say, Sir 
William; that four-year-old he du look a handful! 

Sir William. [With a sharp look] You know well 
enough what I mean. 

Studdenham. {Unmoved] Shall I send young Dun- 
ning, Sir William .? 

Sir William gives a short, sharp nod, and Stud- 
denham retires by the door under the stairs. 

Sir William. Old fox! 

Lady Cheshire. Don't be too hard on Dunning. 
He's very young. 

Sir William. [Patting her arm] My dear, you don't 
understand young fellows, how should you ? 

Lady Cheshire. [With her faint irony] A husband 
and two sons not counting. [Then as the door under 
the stairs is opened] Bill, now do 



18 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Sir William. I'll be gentle with him. [Sharply] 
Come in! 

Lady Cheshire retires to the hilliard-room. She 
gives a look back and a half smile at young 
Dunning, a fair young man dressed in brown 
cords and leggings^ and holding his cap in his 
hand; then goes out. 

Sir William. Evenin', Dunning. 

Dunning. [Twisting his cap] Evenin', Sir William. 

Sir William. Studdenham's told you what I want 
to see you about ? 

Dunning. Yes, Sir. 

Sir William. The thing's In your hands. Take it or 
leave it. I don't put pressure on you. I simply won't 
have this sort of thing on my estate. 

Dunning. I'd like to say. Sir William, that she — 
[He stops]. 

Sir William. Yes, I daresay — Six of one and half a 
dozen of the other. Can't go into that. 

Dunning. No, Sir William. 

Sir William. I'm quite mild with you. This is your 
first place. If you leave here you'll get no character. 

Dunning. I never meant any harm, sir. 

Sir William. My good fellow, you know the custom 
of the country. 

Dunning. Yes, Sir William, but 

Sir William. You should have looked before you 
leaped. I'm not forcing you. If you refuse you must 
go, that's all. 

Dunning. Yes. Sir William. 



sc. II THE ELDEST SON 19 

Sir William. Well, now go along and take a day to 
think it over. 

Bill, who has sauntered moodily from the dining- 
room, stands by the stairs listening. Catching 
sight of him. Dunning raises his hand to his 
forelock. 
Dunning. Very good, Sir William. [He turns, fum- 
bles, and turns again] My old mother's dependent on 



me 

Sir William. Now, Dunning, I've no more to say. 

[Dunning goes sadly away under the stairs. 
Sir William. [Following] And look here! Just 

understand this [He too goes out. 

Bill, lighting a cigarette, has approached the 
writing-table. He looks very glum. The bill- 
iard-room door is flung open. Mabel Lan- 
FARNE appears, and makes him a little curtsey. 
Mabel. Against my will I am bidden to bring you 
in to pool. 

Bill. Sorry! I've got letters. 
Mabel. You seem to have become very conscien- 
tious. 

Bill. Oh! I don't know. 

Mabel. Do you remember the last day of the covert 
shooting ? 
Bill. I do. 

Mabel. [Suddenly] What a pretty girl Freda Stud- 
denham's grown! 
Bill. Has she ? 
Mabel. "She walks in beauty." 



20 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Bill. Really ? Hadn't noticed. 

Mabel. Have you been taking lessons in conversa- 
tion? 

Bill. Don't think so. 

Mabel. Oh! [There is a silence] Mr. Cheshire! 

Bill. Miss Lanfarne! 

Mabel. What's the matter with you? Aren't you 
rather queer, considering that I don't bite, and was 
rather a pal! 

Bill. [Stolidly] I'm sorry. 

Then seeing that his mother has come in from the 
hUliard-roomy he sits down at the writing-table. 

Lady Cheshire. Mabel, dear, do take my cue. 
Won't you play too, Bill, and try and stop Ronny, he's 
too terrible ? 

Bill. Thanks. I've got these letters. 

Mabel taking the cue passes back into the billiard- 
room, whence comes out the sound of talk and 
laughter. 

Lady Cheshire. [Going over and standing behind 
her son's chair] Anything wrong, darhng ? 

Bill. Nothing, thanks. [Suddeiily] I say, I wish you 
hadn't asked that girl here. 

Lady Cheshire. Mabel! Why? She's wanted for 
rehearsals. I thought you got on so well with her last 
Christmas. 

Bill. [With a sort of sullen exasperation] A year ago. 

Lady Cheshire. The girls like her, so does your 
father; personally I must say I think she's rather nice 
and Irish. 



sen THE ELDEST SON 21 

Bill. She's all right, I daresay. 

He looks round as if to show his mother that he 
wishes to he left alone. But Lady Cheshire, 
having seen that he is about to look at her, is 
not looking at him. 

Lady Cheshire. I'm afraid your father's been talk- 
ing to you, Bill. 

Bill. He has. 

Lady Cheshire. Debts? Do try and make allow- 
ances. \With a faint smile] Of course he is a little 

Bill. He is. 

Lady Cheshire, I wish 7 could 

Bill. Oh, Lord! Don't you get mixed up in it! 

Lady Cheshire. It seems almost a pity that you 
told him. 

Bill. He wrote and asked me point blank what I 
owed. 

Lady Cheshire. Oh! [Forcing herself to speak in a 

casual voice] I happen to have a little money, Bill 

I think it would be simpler if 

Bill. Now look here, mother, you've tried that be- 
fore. I can't help spending money, I never shall be 
able, unless I go to the Colonic , or something of the 
kind. 

Lady Cheshire. Don't talk like that, dear! 

Bill. I would, for two straws! 

Lady Cheshire. It's only because your father thinks 
such a lot of the place, and the name, and your career. 
The Cheshires are all like that. They've been here so 
long; they're all — root. 



% 



22 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Bill. Deuced funny business my career will be, I 
expect! 

Lady Cheshire. [Fluttering, but restraining herself 
lest he should see] But, Bill, why must you spend more 
than your allowance ? 

Bill. Why — anything ? I didn't make myself. 
Lady Cheshire. I'm afraid we did that. It was in- 
considerate, perhaps. 

Bill. Yes, you'd better have left me out. 
Lady Cheshire. But why are you so — Only a 
little fuss about money! 
Bill. Ye-es. 

Lady Cheshire. You're not keeping anything from 
me, are you ? 

Bill. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very deliber- 
ately to the writing things, and takes up a pen] I must 
write these letters, please. 

Lady Cheshire. Bill, if there's any real trouble, you 
will tell me, won't you ? 

Bill. There's nothing whatever. 

He suddenly gets up and walks about. 
Lady Cheshire, too, moves over to the fireplace, 
and after an uneasy look at him, turns to the 
fire. Then, as if trying to switch off his mood, 
she changes the subject abruptly. 
Lady Cheshire. Isn't it a pity about young Dun- 
ning ? I'm so sorry for Rose Taylor. 

There is a silence. Stealthily under the staircase 
Freda has entered, and seeing only Bill, ad- 
vances to speak to him. 



sc. n THE ELDEST SON 2S 

Bill. [Suddenly] Oh! well, you can't help these 
things in the country. 

As he speaks J Freda stops dead, perceiving that 
he is not alone; Bill, too, catching sight of her, 
starts. 
Lady Cheshire. [Still speaking to thejire] It seems 
dreadful to force him. I do so believe in people doing 
things of their own accord. [Then seeing Freda stand- 
ing so uncertainly by the stairs] Do you want me, Freda ? 
Freda. Only your cloak, my lady. Shall I — begin it ? 
At this moment Sir William enters from the 
drawing-room. 
Lady Cheshire. Yes, yes. 

Sir William. [Genially] Can you give me another 
five minutes. Bill ? [Pointing to the billiard-room] We'll 
come directly, my dear. 

Freda, with a look at Bill, has gone back whence 

she came; and Lady Cheshire goes reluctantly 

away into the billiard-room. 

Sir William. I shall give young Dunning short 

shrift. [He moves over to the fireplace and divides his 

coat-tails] Now, about you. Bill! I don't want to bully 

you the moment you come down, but you know, this 

can't go on. I've paid your debts twice. Shan't pay 

them this time unless I see a disposition to change your 

mode of life. [A pause] You get your extravagance 

from your mother. She's very queer — [A pause] — All 

the Winterleghs are like that about money. 

Bill. Mother's particularly generous, if that's what 
you mean. 



24 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Sir William. [Drily] We will put It that way. [A 
pause] At the present moment you owe, as I under- 
stand it, eleven hundred pounds. 

Bill. About that. 

Sir William. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a prop- 
osition to make. 

Bill. Won't it do to-morrow, sir ? 

Sir William. "To-morrow" appears to be your 
motto in hfe. 

Bill. Thanks! 

Sir William. I'm anxious to change it to-day. [Bill 
looks at him in silence] It's time you took your position 
seriously, instead of hanging about town, racing, and 
playing polo, and what not. 

Bill. Go ahead! 

At something dangerous in his voice. Sir William 
modifies his attitude. 

Sir William. The proposition's very simple. I can't 
suppose anything so rational and to your advantage will 
appeal to you, but [drily] I mention it. Marry a nice 
girl, settle down, and stand for the division; you can 
have the Dower House and fifteen hundred a year, and 
I'll pay your debts into the bargain. If you're elected 
I'll make it two thousand. Plenty of time to work up 
the constituency before we kick out these infernal Rads. 
Carpet-bagger against you; if you go hard at it in the 
summer, it'll be odd if you don't manage to get in your 
three days a week, next season. You can take Rocketer 
and that four-year-old — he's well up to your weight. 



sc. II THE ELDEST SON 25 

fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only want 
one other. And if Miss — if your wife means to hunt 

Bill. You've chosen my wife, then ? 

Sir William. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've 
some girl in your mind. 

Bill. Ah! 

Sir William. Used not to be unnatural at your age. 
I married your mother at twenty-eight. Here you are, 
eldest son of a family that stands for something. The 
more I see of the times the more I'm convinced that 
everybody who is anybody has got to buckle to, and save 
the landmarks left. Unless we're true to our caste, and 
prepared to work for it, the landed classes are going to 
go under to this infernal democratic spirit in the air. 
The outlook's very serious. We're threatened in a hun- 
dred ways. If you mean business, you'll want a wife. 
When I came into the property I should have been lost 
without your mother. 

Bill. I thought this was coming. 

Sir William. [With a certain genialty] My dear 
fellow, I don't want to put a pistol to your head . You ' ve 
had a slack rein so far. I've never objected to your 
sowing a few wild oats — so long as you — er — [Unseen 
by Sir William, Bill makes a sudden movement] Short 
of that — at all events, I've not inquired into your affairs. 
I can only judge by the — er — pecuniary evidence you've 
been good enough to afford me from time to time. I 
imagine you've lived like a good many young men in 
your position — I'm not blaming you, but there's a time 
for all things. 



26 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Bill. Why don't you say outright that you want me 
to marry Mabel Lanf arne ? 

Sir William. Well, I do. Girl's a nice one. Good 
family — got a little money — rides well. Isn't she good- 
looking enough for you, or what ? 

Bill. Quite, thanks. 

Sir William. I understood from your mother that 
you and she were on good terms. 

Bill. Please don't drag mother into it. 

Sir William. [With dangerous politeness] Perhaps 
you'll be good enough to state your objections. 

Bill. Must we go on with this ? 

Sir William. I've never asked you to do anything 
for me before; I expect you to pay attention now. I've 
no wish to dragoon you into this particular marriage. 
If you don't care for Miss Lanfarne, marry a girl you're 
fond of. 

Bill. I refuse. 

Sir William. In that case you know what to look 
out for. [With a sudden rush ofcholer] You young . . . 
[He checks himself and stands glaring at Bill, who 
glares back at him] This means, I suppose, that you've 
got some entanglement or other. 

Bill. Suppose what you like, sir. 

Sir William. I warn you, if you play the black- 
guard 

Bill. You can't force me like young Dunning. 

Hearing the raised voices Lady Cheshire has 
come back from the billiard-room. 

Lady Cheshire. [Closing the door] What is it ? 



sc. II THE ELDEST SON 27 

Sir William. You deliberately refuse! Go away, 
Dorothy. 

Lady Cheshire. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for 
two months. 

Sir William. What! [Hesitating] Well — we must 
talk it over again. 

Lady Cheshire. Come to the billiard-room, both of 
you! Bill, do finish those letters! 

With a deft movement she draws Sir William 
toward the billiard-room, and glances back at 
Bill before going out, but he has turned to the 
writing-table. When the door is closed. Bill 
looks into tne drawing-room, then opens the door 
under the stairs; and backing away towards the 
writing-table, sits down there, and takes up a 
pen. Freda who has evidently been waiting, 
comes in and stands by the table. 
Bill. I say, this is dangerous, you know. 
Freda. Yes — but I must. 

Bill. Well, then — [With natural recklessness] Aren't 
you going to kiss me ? 

Without moving she looks at him with a sort of 
miserable inquiry. 
Bill. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight 
weeks ? 

Freda. Quite — long enough — for you to have forgot- 
ten. 

Bill. Forgotten! I don't forget people so soon. 

Freda. No? 

Bill. What's the matter with you, Freda ? 



28 THE ELDEST SON act i 

Freda, [After a long look] It'll never be as it was. 

Bill. [Jumping up] How d'you mean ? 

Freda. I've got something for you. [She takes a 
diamond ring out of her dress and holds it out to him] 
I've not worn it since Cromer. 

Bill. Now, look here 

Freda. I've had my holiday; I shan't get another in 
a hurry. 

Bill. Freda! 

Freda. You'll be glad to be free. That fortnight's 
all you really loved me in. 

Bill. [Putting his hands on her arms] I swear 

Freda. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanf arne need never 
know about me. 

Bill. So that's it! I've told you a dozen times — 
nothing's changed. [Freda looks at him a7id smiles. 

Bill. Oh! very well! If you will make yourself 
miserable. 

Freda. Everybody will be pleased. 

Bill. At what ? 

Freda. When you marry her. 

Bill. This is too bad. 

Freda. It's what always happens — even when it's not 
a gentleman. 

Bill. That's enough. 

Freda. But I'm not like that girl down in the village. 
You needn't be afraid I'll say anything when — it comes. 
That's what I had to tell you. 

Bill. What! 

Freda. / can keep a secret. 



sc. II THE ELDEST SON 29 

Bill. Do you mean this ? [She boivs her head. 

Bill. Good God! 

Freda. Father brought me up not to whine. Like 
the puppies when they hold them up by their tails. 
[With a sudden break in her voice] Oh! Bill! 

Bill. [With his head down, seizing her hands] Freda ! 
[He breaks away from her towards the Jlre] Good God ! 
She stands looking at him, then quietly slips away 
by the door under the staircase. Bill turns to 
speak to her, and sees that she has gone. He 
walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantel- 
piece. 
Bill. By Jove! This is ! 

The curtain falls. 



ACT II 

The scene is Lady Cheshire's morning room, at ten 
o'clock on the following day. It is a pretty room, 
with white panelled walls; and chrysanthemums and 
carmine lilies in bowls. A large bow window over- 
looks the park under a sou' -westerly sky. A piano 
stands open; a fire is burning; and the morning's 
correspondence is scattered on a writing-table. Doors 
opposite each other lead to the maid's workroom, and 
to a corridor. Lady Cheshire is standing in the 
middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak, which 
Freda is holding out. 
Lady Cheshire. Well, Freda, suppose you just give 
it up! 

Freda. I don't like to be beaten. 
Lady Cheshire. You're not to worry over your 
work. And by the way, I promised your father to 
make you eat more. [Freda smiles. 

Lady Cheshire. It's all very well to smile. You 
want bracing up. Now don't be naughty. I shall 
give you a tonic. And I think you had better put that 
cloak away. 

Freda. I'd rather have one more try, my lady. 
Lady Cheshire. [Sitting down at her writing-table] 
Very well. 

Freda goes out into her workroom, as Jackson 
comes in from the corridor. 
31 



32 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

Jackson. Excuse me, my lady. There's a young 
woman from the village, says you wanted to see her. 

Lady Cheshire. Rose Taylor? Ask her to come 
in. Oh! and Jackson the car for the meet please at 
half-past ten. 

Jackson having bowed and withdrawn. Lady 
Cheshire rises with marked signs of nervous- 
ness, which she has only just suppressed, when 
Rose Taylor, a stolid country girl, comes in 
and stands waiting by the door. 
Lady Cheshire. Well, Rose. Do come in! 

[Rose advances perhaps a couple of steps. 
Lady Cheshire. I just wondered whether you'd like 
to ask my advice. Your engagement with Dunning's 
broken off, isn't it ? 

Rose. Yes — but I've told him he's got to marry me. 
Lady Cheshire. I see! And you think that'll be 
the wisest thing ? 

Rose. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to. 
Lady Cheshire. I do hope you're a little fond of 
him still. 

Rose. I'm not. He don't deserve it. 
Lady Cheshire. And — do you think he's quite lost 
his affection for you ? 

Rose. I suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as he's 
done. He's after that — that — He didn't ought to treat 
me as if I was dead. 

Lady Cheshire. No, no — of course. But you will 
think it all well over, won't you ? 



ACT II THE ELDEST SON 33 

Rose. I've a-got nothing to think over, except what 
I know of. 

Lady Cheshire. But for you both to marry in that 
spirit! You know it's for hfe, Rose. [Looking into her 
face] I'm always ready to help you. 

Rose. [Dropping a very slight curtsey] Thank you, 
my lady, but I think he ought to marry me. I've told 
him he ought. 

Lady Cheshire. [Sighing] Well, that's all I wanted 
to say. It's a question of your self-respect ; I can't give 
you any real advice. But just remember that if you 
want a friend 

Rose. [With a gulp] I'm not so 'ard, really. I only 
want him to do what's right by me. 

Lady Cheshire. [With a little lift of her eyebrows — ■ 
gently] Yes, yes — I see. 

Rose. [Glancing bach at the door] I don't like meet- 
ing the servants. 

Lady Cheshire. Come along, I'll take you out 
another way. [As they reach the door. Dot comes in. 

Dot. [With a glance at Rose] Can we have this room 
for the mouldy rehearsal, Mother ? 

Lady Cheshire. Yes, dear, you can air it here. 

Holding the door open for Rose she follows her 
out. And Dot, with a book of "Caste'' in 
her hand, arranges the room according to a 
diagram. 

Dot. Chair — chair — table — chair — ^Dash! Table — 
piano — fire — window! [Producing a pocket comb] Comb 
for Eccles. Cradle ? — Cradle — [She viciously dumps a 



34 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool into it] 
Brat! [Then reading from the book gloomily] "Enter 
Eccles breathless. Esther and Polly rise — Esther puts 
on lid of bandbox." Bandbox! 

Searching for something to represent a bandbox, 
she opens the isorkroom door. 

Dot. Freda? 

Freda comes in. 

Dot. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You 
seem awfully down. [Freda does not answer. 

Dot. You haven't looked anything of a lollipop 
lately. 

Freda. I'm quite all right, thank you. Miss Dot. 

Dot. Has Mother been givin' you a tonic ? 

Freda. [Smiling a little] Not yet. 

Dot. That doesn't account for it then. \With a 
sudden warm impulse] What is it, Freda ? 

Freda. Nothing. 

Dot. [Switching off on a different line of thought] 
Are you very busy this morning ? 

Freda. Only this cloak for my lady. 

Dot. Oh! that can wait. I may have to get you in 
to prompt, if I can't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily] They 
stray so. Would you mind? 

Freda. [Stolidly] I shall be very glad, Miss Dot. 

Dot. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see — 
what did I want? 

Joan has come in. 

Joan. Look here. Dot; about the baby in this scene. 
I'm sure I ought to make more of it. 



ACT II 



THE ELDEST SON 35 



Dot. Romantic little beast! [She plucks the footstool 
out by one ear, and holds itfoHh] Let's see you try! 

Joan. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really going 
to have for the baby ? I can't rehearse with that thing. 
Can't you suggest something, Freda ? 

Freda. Borrow a real one. Miss Joan. There are 
some that don't count much. 
Joan. Freda, how horrible! 

Dot. [Dropping the footstool bach into the basket] 
You'll just put up with what you're given. 

Then as Christine and Mabel Lanfarne come 
in, Freda turns abruptly and goes out. 
Dot. Buck up! Where are Bill and Harold? [To 
Joan] Go and find them, mouse-cat. 

But Bill and Harold, followed by Latter, are 
already in the doorway. They come in, and 
Latter, stumbling over the waste-paper basket, 
takes it up to improve its position. 
Dot. Drop that cradle, John! [As he picks the foot- 
stool out of it] Leave the baby in! Now then! Bill, 
you enter there! [She points to the workroom door where 
Bill and Mabel range themselves close to the piano; 
while Harold goes to the window] John! get off the 
stage! Now then, "Eccles enters breathless, Esther 
and Polly rise." Wait a minute. I know now. [She 
opens the workroom door] Freda, I wanted a band- 
box. 

Harold. [Cheerfulhj] I hate beginning to rehearse, 
you know, you feel such a fool. 



36 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

Dot. [With her bandbox — gloomily] You'll feel more 
of a fool when you have begun. [To Bill, who is star- 
ing into the workroom] Shut the door. Now. 

[Bill shuts the door. 

Latter. [Advancing] Look here! I want to clear 
up a point of psychology before we start. 

Dot. Good Lord! 

Latter. When I bring in the milk — ought I to bring 
it in seriously — as if I were accustomed — I mean, I 
maintain that if I'm 

Joan. Oh! John, but I don't think it's meant that 
you should 

Dot. Shut up! Go back, John! Blow the milk! 
Begin, begin, begin! Bill! 

Latter. [Turning round and again advancing] But 
I think you underrate the importance of my entrance 
altogether. 

Mabel. Oh! no, Mr. Latter! 

Latter. I don't in the least want to destroy the bal- 
ance of the scene, but I do want to be clear about the 
spirit. What is the spirit ? 

Dot. [With gloom] Rollicking! 

Latter. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a 
great risk with this play, if we rollick. 

Dot. Shall we? Now look here ! 

Mabel. [Softly to Bill] Mr. Cheshire! 

Bill. [Desperately] Let's get on! 

Dot. [Waving Latter back] Begin, begin! At last! 
But Jackson has come in. 



ACT II THE ELDEST SON 37 

Jackson. [To Christine] Studdenham says, M'm, if 
the young ladies want to see the spaniel pups, he's 
brought 'em round. 

Joan. [Starting up] Oh! come on, John! 

[She flies towards the door, followed by Latter. 

Dot. [Gesticulating with her book] Stop! You 

[Christine and Harold also rush past. 

Dot. [Despairingly] First pick! [Tearing her hair] 
Pigs! Devils! [She rushes after them. 

Bill and Mabel are left alone. 

Mabel. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the 
spaniel pups ? 

Bill. [Painfully reserved and sidlen, and conscious of 
the workroom door] Can't keep a dog in town. You 
can have one, if you like. The breeding's all right. 

Mabel. Sixth pick ? 

Bill. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They only 
fancy they want 'em. 

Mabel. [Moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped 
behind her] You know, you remind me awfully of your 
father. Except that you're not nearly so polite. I don't 
understand you English — lords of the soil. The way 
you have of disposing of your females. [With a sudden 
change of voice] What was the matter with you last 
night ? [Softly] Won't you tell me ? 

Bill. Nothing to tell. 

Mabel. Ah! no, Mr. Bill. 

Bill. [Almost succumbing to her voice — then sullenly] 
Worried, I suppose. 



38 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

Mabel. [Returning to her mocking] Quite got over it ? 

Bill. Don't chaff me, please. 

Mabel. You really are rather formidable. 

Bill. Thanks. 

Mabel. But, you know, I love to cross a field where 
there's a bull. 

Bill. Really! Very interesting. 

Mabel. The way of their only seeing one thing at a 
time. [She moves back as he advances] And overturning 
people on the journey. 

Bill. Hadn't you better be a little careful ? 

Mabel. And never to see the hedge until they're 
stuck in it. And then straight from that hedge into the 
opposite one. 

Bill. [Savagely] What makes you bait me this morn- 
ing of all mornings ? 

Mabel. The beautiful morning! [Suddenly] It must 
be dull for poor Freda working in there with all this fun 
going on ? 

Bill. [Glancing at the door] Fun you call it ? 

Mabel. To go back to you, now — Mr. Cheshire. 

Bill, No. 

Mabel. You always make me feel so Irish. Is it 
because you're so English, d'you think ? Ah! I can see 
him moving his ears. Now he's pawing the ground — 
He's started! 

Bill. Miss Lanfarne! 

Mabel. [Still backing away from him^ and drawing 
him on with her eyes and smile] You can't help coming 



ACT II THE ELDEST SON 39 

after me! [Then with a sudden change to a sort of stern 
gravity] Can you ? You'll feel that when I've gone. 

They stand quite stilly looking into each other's 
eyes and Freda, wJw has opened the door of 
the workroom stares at them. 
Mabel. [Seeing her] Here's the stile. Adieu, Mon- 
sieur le taureaul 

She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and 
slips through, leaving Bill to turn, following 
the direction of her eyes, and see Freda with 
the cloak still in her hand. 
Bill. [Slowly walking towards her] I haven't slept 
all night. 
Freda. No? 
Bill. Have you been thinking it over ? 

[Freda gives a bitter little laugh. 
Bill. Don't! We must make a plan. I'll get you 
away. I won't let you suffer. I swear I won't. 
Freda. That will be clever. 

Bill. I wish to Heaven my affairs weren't in such a 
mess. 

Freda. I shall be — all — right, thank you. 
Bill. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes 
her head] Abuse me — say something! Don't look like 
that! 

Freda. Were you ever really fond of me ? 
Bill. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your 
hands. 

She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, 
and covers her face. 



40 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

Bill. [Clenching his fists] Look here! I'll prove it. 
[ Then as she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and 
clings to him] There, there! 

There is a click of a door handle. They start away 
from each other, and see Lady Cheshire re- 
garding them. 
Lady Cheshire. [Without irony] I beg your pardon. 
She makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted 
intrusion, but suddenly turningt stands, with 
lips pressed together, waiting. 
Lady Cheshire. Yes? 

Freda has muffled her face. But Bill turns and 
confronts his mx)ther. 
Bill. Don't say anything against her! 
Lady Cheshire. [Tries to speak to him and fails — 
then to Freda] Please — go! 

Bill. [Taking Freda's ami] No. 

Lady Cheshire, after a momenVs hesitation, her- 
self moves towards the door. 
Bill. Stop, mother! 
Lady Cheshire. I think perhaps not. 
Bill. [Looking at Freda, who is cowering as though 
from a blow] It's a d — d shame! 
Lady Cheshire. It is. 

Bill. \With sudden resolution] It's not as you think. 
I'm engaged to be married to her. 

[Freda gives him a wild stare, and turns away. 
Lady Cheshire. [Looking from one to the other] I — 
don't — think — I — quite — understand. 



ACTH THE ELDEST SON 41 

Bill. [With the brutality of his moHijicatwn] What I 
said was plain enough. 
Lady Cheshire. Bill! 
Bill. I tell you I am going to marry her. 
Lady Cheshire. [To Freda] Is that true? 

[Freda gul'ps and remains silent. 
Bill. If you want to say anything, say it to me, 
mother. 

Lady Cheshire. [Gripping the edge of a little table] 
Give me a chair, please. [Bill gives her a chair. 

Lady Cheshire. [To Freda] Please sit down too. 
Freda sits on the piano stool, still turning her 
face away. 
Lady Cheshire. [Fixing her eyes on Freda] Now! 
Bill. I fell in love with her. And she with me. 
Lady Cheshire. When? 
Bill. In the summer. 
Lady Cheshire. Ah! 
Bill. It wasn't her fault. 
Lady Cheshire. No? 
Bill. [With a sort of menace] Mother! 
Lady Cheshire. Forgive me, I am not quite used 
to the idea. You say that you— are engaged ? 
Bill. Yes. 

Lady Cheshire. The reasons against such an en- 
gagement have occurred to you, I suppose? [With a 
sudden change of tone] Bill! what does it mean? 
Bill. If you think she's trapped me into this ■ 



42 THE ELDEST SON act n 

Lady Cheshire. I do not. Neither do I think she 
has been trapped. I think nothing. I understand 
nothing. 

Bill. [Grimly] Good! 

Lady Cheshire. How long has this — engagement 
lasted ? 

Bill. [After a silence] Two months. 

Lady Cheshire. [Suddenly] This is — this is quite 
impossible. 

Bill. You'll find it isn't. 

Lady Cheshire. It's simple misery. 

Bill. [Pointing to the workroom] Go and wait in 
there, Freda. 

Lady Cheshire. [Quickly] And are you still in love 
with her? 

Freda, moving towards the workroom, smothers 
a sob. 

Bill. Of course I am. 

Freda has gone, and as she goes. Lady Cheshire 
rises suddenly, forced by the intense feeling she 
has been keeping in hand. 

Lady Cheshire. Bill! Oh, Bill! What does it all 
mean ? [Bill, looking from side to side, only shrugs his 
shoulders] You are not in love with her now. It's no 
good telling me you are. 

Bill. I am. 

Lady Cheshire. That's not exactly how you would 
speak if you were. 

Bill. She's in love with me. 

Lady Cheshire. [Bitterly] I suppose so. 



ACT II THE ELDEST SON 43 

Bill. I mean to see that nobody runs her down. 

Lady Cheshire. [With difficulty] Bill! Am I a hard, 
or mean woman ? 

Bill. Mother! 

Lady Cheshire. It*s all your life— and— your fath- 
er's — and — all of us. I want to understand — I must 
understand. Have you realised what an awful thing 
this would be for us all? It's quite impossible that 
it should go on. 

Bill. I'm always in hot water with the Governor, 
as it is. She and I'll take good care not to be in the 
way. 

Lady Cheshire. Tell me everything! 

Bill. I have. 

Lady Cheshire. I'm your mother, Bill. 

Bill. What's the good of these questions ? 

Lady Cheshire. You won't give her away — I see! 

Bill. I've told you all there is to tell. We're en- 
gaged, we shall be married quietly, and — and — go to 
Canada. 

Lady Cheshire. If there weren't more than that to 
tell you'd be in love with her now. 

Bill. I've told you that I am. 

Lady Cheshire. You are not. [Almost fiercely] I 
know — I know there's more behind. 

Bill. There — is — nothing. 

Lady Cheshire. [Baffled, but unconvinced] Do you 
mean that your love for her has been iust what it might 
have been for a lady ? 

Bill. [Bitterly] Why not? 



44 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

Lady Cheshire. [With painful irony] It is not so 
as a rule. 

Bill. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls 
say a word against Freda. This isn't the moment to 
begin, please. 

Lady Cheshire. [Solemnly] All such marriages end 
in wretchedness. You haven't a taste or tradition in 
common. You don't know what marriage is. Day 
after day, year after year. It's no use being sentimen- 
tal — for people brought up as we are to have dif- 
ferent manners is worse than to have different souls. 
Besides, it's poverty. Your father will never forgive 
you, and Fve practically nothing. What can you do ? 
You have no profession. How are you going to stand 
it; with a woman who ? It's the little things. 

Bill. I know all that, thanks. 

Lady Cheshire. Nobody does till they've been 
through it. Marriage is hard enough when people are 
of the same class. [With a sudden movement towards 
him] Oh! my dear — before it's too late! 

Bill. [After a struggle] It's no good. 

Lady Cheshire. It's not fair to her. It can only 
end in her misery. 

Bill. Leave that to me, please. 

Lady Cheshire. [With an almost angry vehemence] 
Only the very finest can do such things. And you — 
don't even know what trouble's like. 

Bill. Drop it, please, mother. 

Lady Cheshire. Bill, on your word of honour, are 
you acting of your own free will ? 



ACTH THE ELDEST SON 45 

Bill. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any 

more. [He goes out into the workroom. 

Lady Cheshire. What in God's name shall I do ? 

In her distress she walks up and down the room, 

then goes to the workroom door, and opens it. 

Lady Cheshire. Come in here, please, Freda. 

After a second* s pause, Freda, white and trem- 
bling, appears in the doorway, followed by Bill. 
Lady Cheshire. No, Bill. I want to speak to her 

alone. 

Bill does not move. 

Lady Cheshire. [Icily] I must ask you to leave us. 
Bill hesitates; then shrugging his shoulders, he 
touches Freda's arms, and goes back into the 
workroom, closing the door. There is silence. 

Lady Cheshire. How did it come about ? 

Freda. I don't know, my lady. 

Lady Cheshire. For heaven's sake, child, don't call 
me that again, whatever happens. [She walks to the 
window, and speaks from there] I know well enough 
how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry. But, 
you see, it's my eldest son. [Freda puts her hand to her 
breast] Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of 
these things. That's natural. But it's not only you — 
is it ? Does any one guess ? 

Freda. No. 

Lady Cheshire. Not even your father? [Freda 
shakes her head] There's nothing more dreadful than 
for a woman to hang like a stone round a man's neck. 
How far has it gone ? Tell me! 



46 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

Freda. I can't. 

Lady Cheshire. Come! 

Freda. I — won't. 

Lady Cheshire. [Smiling painfully]. Won't give 
him away ? Both of you the same. What's the use of 
that with me ? Look at me ! Wasn't he with you when 
you went for your hoHday this summer ? 

Freda. He's — always — behaved — hke — a — gentle- 
man. 

Lady Cheshire. Like a man — you mean! 

Freda. It hasn't been his fault! I love him so. 

Lady Cheshire turns abruptly, and begins to 
walk up and down the room. Then stopping, 
she looks intently at Freda. 

Lady Cheshire. I don't know what to say to you. 
It's simple madness! It can't, and shan't go on. 

Freda. [Sullenly] I know I'm not his equal, but I 
am — somebody. 

Lady Cheshire. [Answering this first assertion of 
rights with a sudden steeliness] Does he love you now ? 

Freda. That's not fair — it's not fair. 

Lady Cheshire. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, 
women are not. If you've lost him it's been your own 
fault. 

Freda. But he does love me, he must. It's only four 
months. 

Lady Cheshire. [Looking down, and speaking rap- 
idly] Listen to me. I love my son, but I know him — I 
know all his kind of man. I've lived with one for thirty 
years. I know the way their senses work. When they 



ACT II THE ELDEST SON 47 

want a thing they must have it, and then — they're 
sorry. 

Freda. [Sullenly] He's not sorry. 

Lady Cheshire. Is his love big enough to carry you 
both over everything ? . . . You know it isn't. 

Freda. If I were a lady, you wouldn't talk like that. 

Lady Cheshire. If you were a lady there 'd be no 
trouble before either of you. You'll make him hate you. 

Freda. I won't believe it. I could make him happy 
— out there. 

Lady Cheshire. I don't want to be so odious as to 
say all the things you must know. I only ask you to 
try and put yourself in our position. 

Freda. Ah, yes! 

Lady Cheshire. You ought to know me better than 
to think I'm purely selfish. 

Freda. Would you like to put yourself in my posi- 
tion ? [She throws up her head. 

Lady Cheshire. What! 

Freda. Yes. Just like Rose. 

Lady Cheshire. [In a low, horror-stricken voice] Oh! 
There is a dead silence, then going swiftly up to 
her, she looks straight into Freda's eyes. 

Freda. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes — it's the truth. 
[Then to Bill ivhc has come in from the workroom, she 
gasps out] I never meant to tell. 

Bill. Well, are you satisfied ? 

Lady Cheshire. [Below her breath] This is terrible! 

Bill. The Governor had better know. 

Lady Cheshire. Oh! no; not yet! 



48 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

Bill. Waiting won't cure it! 

The door from the corridor is thrown open; Chris- 
tine and Dot run in with their copies of the 
play in their hands; seeing that something is 
wrong, they stand still. After a look at his 
mother f Bill turns abruptly y and goes bach into 
the workroom. Lady Cheshire moves towards 
the window. 
Joan. [Following her sisters] The car's round. 
What's the matter? 
Dot. Shut up! 

Sir William's voice is heard from the corridor 
calling '* Dorothy!" As Lady Cheshire, pass- 
ing her handkerchief over her face, turns round, 
he enters. He is in full hunting dress: well- 
weathered pink, buxikskins, and mahogany tops. 
Sir William. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, 
genially] Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to Freda 
holding out his gloved right hand] Button that for me, 
Freda, would you? It's a bit stiff! 

Freda buttons the glove: Lady Cheshire and 
the girls watching in hypnotic silence. 
Sir William. Thank you! "Bahny as May"; scent 
ought to be first-rate. [To Lady Cheshire] Good-bye, 
my dear! Sampson's Gorse — best day of the whole 
year. [He pats Joan on the shoulder] Wish you were 
comin* out, Joan. 

He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his 
footsteps and the chink of his spurs die away, 
Freda turns and rushes into the workroom. 



ACT II THE ELDEST SON 49 

Christine. Mother! What ? 

But Lady Cheshire waves the question aside, 
passes her daughter, and goes out into the cor- 
ridor. The sound of a motor car is heard. 

Joan. [Running to the wiridoiv] They've started — ! 
—Chris! What is it? Dot? 

Dot. Bill, and her! 

Joan. But what? 

Dot. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're 
not fit for this. 

Joan. [Aghast] I am fit. 

Dot. I think not. 

Joan. Chris? 

Christine. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have 
told us. 

Joan. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good. 

Dot. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water — 
kitten! 

Christine. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I 
wish Ronny hadn't gone. 

Joan. Shall I fetch John? 

Dot. John! 

Christine. Perhaps Harold knows. 

Joan. He went out with Studdenham. 

Dot. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. 
Rose-leaves and humbug! That awful old man! 

Joan. Dot! 

Christine. Don't talk of father like that! 

Dot. Well, he is! And Bill will be just hke him at 
fifty! Heaven help Freda, whatever she's done! I'd 



50 THE ELDEST SON act n 

sooner be a private in a German regiment than a 
woman. 

Joan. Dot, you're awful. 
Dot. You — mouse-hearted — linnet! 
Christine. Don't talk that nonsense about women! 
Dot. You're married and out of it; and Ronny's not 
one of these terrific John Bulls. [To Joan who has 
opened the door] Looking for John ? No good, my dear; 
lath and plaster. 

Joan. [From the door, in a frightened whisper] Here's 
Mabel! 

Dot. Heavens, and the waters under the earth! 
Christine. If we only knew! 

As Mabel comes in, the three girls are silent, with 
their eyes fixed on their books. 
Mabel. The silent company. 

Dot. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it for 
to-day. 

Mabel. What's the matter? 
Christine. Oh! nothing. 
Dot. Something's happened. 

Mabel. Really! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad 
enough for me to go ? 

Christine. Oh! no, Mabel! 

Dot. [Sardonically] I should think very likely. 

While she is looking from face to face. Bill comes 
in from the workroom. He starts to walk 
across the room, but stops, and looks stolidly at 
the four girls. 



ACT II THE ELDEST SON 51 

Bill. Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lan- 
farne, I'm engaged to my mother's maid. 

No one moves or speaks. Suddenly Mabel 
Lanfarne goes towards him, holding out her 
hand. Bill does not take her hand, but bows. 
Then after a swift glance at the girls' faces 
Mabel goes out into the corridor, and the three 
girls are left staring at their brother. 
Bill. [Coolly] Thought you might like to know. 

[He, too, goes out into the corridor. 
Christine. Great heavens! 
Joan. How awful! 

Christine. I never thought of anything as bad as that. 
Joan. Oh! Chris! Something must be done! 
Dot. [Suddenly to herself ] Ha! When Father went up 
to have his glove buttoned! 

There is a sound, Jackson has come in from the 
corridor. 
Jackson. [To Dot] If you please. Miss, Studden- 
ham's brought up the other two pups. He's just out- 
side. Will you kindly take a look at them, he says ? 
There is silence. 
Dot. [Suddenly] We can't. 
Christine. Not just now, Jackson. 
Jackson. Is Studdenham and the pups to wait, M'm ? 
Dot shakes her head violently. But Studden- 
ham is seen already standing in the doorway, 
with a spaniel puppy in either side-pocket. He 
comes in, and Jackson stands waiting behind 
him. 



52 THE ELDEST SON act ii 

Studdenham. This fellow's the best, Miss Dot. 
[He protrudes the right-hand pocket] I was keeping 
him for my girl — a proper breedy one — takes after his 
father. 

The girls stare at him in silence. 

Dot. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see. 

Studdenham. I won't take 'em out in here. They're 
rather bold yet. 

Christine. [Desperately] No, no, of course. 

Studdenham. Then you think you'd like him. Miss 
Dot? The other's got a white chest; she's a lady. 

[He protrudes the left-hand pocket 

Dot. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. 

Studdenham. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow 
you like a woman. You can't shake 'em off anyhow. 
[He protrudes the right-hand pocket] My girl, she'd set 
her heart on him, but she'll just have to do without. 

Dot. [As though galvanised] Oh! no, I can't take it 
away from her. 

Studdenham. Bless you, she won't mind! That's 
settled, then. [He turns to the door. To the Puppy] 
Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggle out of it! Regular 
young limb ! [He goes out, followed by Jackson. 

Christine. How ghastly! 

Dot. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] 
"Caste!" [She gives vent to a short sharp laugh. 

The curtain falls. 



ACT III 

It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the 
smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered 
by old steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs 
encircle a high-fendered hearth, in which a fire is 
burning. The curtains are not yet drawn across 
mullioned windows; but electric light is burning. 
There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard- 
room, the other to a corridor. Bill is pacing up and 
down; Harold, at the fireplace, stands looking at 
him with commiseration. 
Bill, What's the time? 

Harold. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's 
any consolation. Always a tough meet — [softly] as the 
tiger said when he ate the man. 

Bill. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand 
within a mile of me, Harold. 

Harold. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're 
going to make it any better by marrying her ? 

[Bill shrugs his shoidders, still pacing the room. 
Bill. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy 
to say things. 

Harold. No, old man. 

Bill. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you 
wouldn't think it! 

Harold. My dear old chap! 
53 



54 THE ELDEST SON act m 

Bill. This is about as low-down a thing as one could 
have done, I suppose — one's own mother's maid; we've 
known her since she was so high. I see it now that — 
I've got over the attack. 

Harold. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on 
her. Bill! Do apply your reason, old boy. 

There is silence; while Bill again faces up and 
down. 

Bill. If you think I care two straws about the 
morality of the thing 

Harold. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not! 

Bill. It's simply that I shall feel such a d — d skunk, 
if I leave her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. 
Try it yourself; you'd soon see! 

Harold. Poor old chap! 

Bill. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. 
And she's a soft little thing. Why I ever made such a 
sickening ass of myself, I can't think. I never meant — 

Harold. No, I know! But j don't do anything rash. 
Bill; keep your head, old man! 

Bill. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear 
out of the country. [The sound of cannoning billiard 
balls is heard] Who's that knocking the balls about ? 

Harold. John, I expect. [The sound ceases. 

Bill. He's coming in here. Can't stand that! 

As Latter appears from the billiard-room, he 
goes hurriedly out. 

Latter. Was that Bill ? 

Harold. Yes. 

Latter. Well? 



ACTin THE ELDEST SON 55 

Harold. [Pacing up and down in his turn] Rat in a 
cage is a fool to him. This is the sort of thing you read 
of in books, John! What price your argument with 
Ronny now ? Well, it's not too late for you luckily. 

Latter. What do you mean ? 

Harold. You needn't connect yourself with this ec- 
centric family! 

Latter. I'm not a bounder, Harold. 

Harold. Good! 

Latter. It's terrible for your sisters. 

Harold. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people 
staying here! Poor mother! John, I feel awfully bad 
about this. If something isn't done, pretty mess I shall 
be in. 

Latter. How? 

Harold. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts 
Bill off, it'll all come to me. 

Latter. Oh! 

Harold. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! 
What ? Moral! Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on 
the hop. 

Latter. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's be- 
haved disgracefully. 

Harold. [Warmly] Well! There are thousands of 
fellows who'd never dream of sticking to the girl, con- 
sidering what it means. 

Latter. Perfectly disgusting! 

Harold. Hang you, John ! Haven't you any human 
sympathy? Don't you know how these things come 
about ? It's like a spark in a straw-yard. 



56 THE ELDEST SON act m 

Latter. One doesn't take lighted pipes into straw- 
yards unless one's an idiot, or worse. 

Harold. H'm ! [With a grin] You're not allowed to- 
bacco. In the good old days no one would have thought 
anything of this. My great-grandfather 

Latter. Spare me your great-grandfather. 

Harold. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I 
know who've been through this same business, and got 
off scot-free; and now because Bill's going to play the 
game, it'll smash him up. 

Latter. Why didn't he play the game at the begin- 
ning? 

Harold. I can't stand your sort, John. When a 
thing like this happens, all you can do is to cry out: 
Why didn't he—? Why didn't she—? What's to be 
done — that's the point! 

Latter. Of course he'll have to 

Harold. Ha! 

Latter. What do you mean by — that ? 

Harold. Look here, John ! You feel in your bones 
that a marriage'll be hopeless, just as I do, knowing 
Bill and the girl and everything! Now don't you ? 

Latter. The whole thing is — is most unfortunate. 

Harold. By Jove! I should think it was ! 

As he speaks Christine and Keith come in 
from the billiard-room. He is still in splashed 
hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally weath- 
ered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette 
and sinks into an armchair. Behind them Dot 
and Joan have come stealing in. 



ACTin THE ELDEST SON 57 

Christine. I've told Ronny. 
Joan. This waiting for father to be told is awful. 
Harold. [ To Keith] Where did you leave the old man ? 
Keith. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten minutes. 
Dot. Mabel's going. [They all stir, as if at fresh con- 
sciousness of discomfiture]. She walked into Gracely and 
sent herself a telegram. 
Harold. Phew! 

Dot. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had 
happened ! 

Harold. It's up to you, Ronny. 

Keith, looking at Joan, slowly emits smoJce; and 
Latter passing his arm through Joan's, draws 
her away with him into the billiard- room. 
Keith. Dot? 

Dot. Fm not a squeamy squirrel. 
Keith. Anybody seen the girl since? 
Dot. Yes. 
Harold. Well? 
Dot. She's just sitting there. 
Christine. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing. 
Dot. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one 

could only feel ! 

Keith. She's got to face the music like the rest of us. 
Dot. Music! Squeaks! Ugh! The whole thing's like 
a concertina, and some one jigging it! 

They all turn as the door opens, and a Footman 
enters with a tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and 
soda water. In dead silence the Footman puts 
the tray down. 



58 THE ELDEST SON act m 

Harold. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, 
Ronny ? [As Keith nods] What point ? 

Keith. Eight mile. 

Footman. Will you take tea, sir ? 

Keith. No, thanks, Charles! 

In dead silence again the Footman goes out, and 
they all look after him. 

Harold. [Below his breath] Good Gad! That's a 
squeeze of it! 

Keith. What's our line of country to be ? 

Christine. All depends on father. 

Keith. Sir William's between the devil and the deep 
sea, as it strikes me. 

Christine. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of course. 

Keith. H'iq! Hard case! Man who reads family 
prayers, and lessons on Sunday forbids son to 

Christine. Ronny! 

Keith. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to 
marry her. She's got to stand the racket. But your 
Dad will have a tough job to take up that position. 

Dot. Awfully funny! 

Christine. What on earth d'you mean, Dot ? 

Dot. Morality in one eye, and your title in the 
other! 

Christine. Rubbish! 

Harold. You're all reckoning without your Bill. 

Keith. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no 
mortal power can help the title going down, if Bill 

chooses to be such a 

[He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss. 



ACT III THE ELDEST SON 59 

Harold. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor 
would any of you girls, I should think 

Christine and Dot. Of course not! 

Keith. [Patting his wife's arm] Hardly the point, 
is It? 

Dot. If it wasn't for mother! Freda's just as much 
of a lady as most girls. Why shouldn't he marry her, 
and go to Canada ? It's what he's really jfit for. 

Harold. Steady on. Dot! 

Dot. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what 
he'll come to, if he stays here — jolly for the country! 

Christine. Don't be cynical! We must find a way 
of stopping Bill. 

Dot. Me cynical! 

Christine. Let's go and beg him, Ronny! 

Keith. No earthly! The only hope is in the girl. 

Dot. She hasn't the stuff in her! 

Harold. I say! What price young Dunning! Right 
about face! Poor old Dad! 

Christine. It's past joking, Harold! 

Dot. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than most 
relations by marriage! 

Keith. Thanks! 

Christine. It's ridiculous — monstrous! It's fan- 
tastic! 

Harold. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse 
going round. He's in! 

They turn from listening to the sound, to see Lady 
Cheshire coming from the billiard-room. She 
is very pale. They all rise and Dot puts an 



60 THE ELDEST SON act m 

arm round her; while Keith pushes forward 
his chair. Joan and Latter too have come 
stealing hack. 

Lady Cheshire. Thank you, Ronny! 

[She sits down. 

Dot. Mother, you're shivering! Shall I get you a 
fur? 

Lady Cheshire. No, thanks, dear! 

Dot. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling! 

Lady Cheshire. [Straightening herself] What sort of 
a run, Ronny ? 

Keith. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's Dyke, 
good straight line. 

Lady Cheshire. And the young horse ? 

Keith. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's 
all. [Putting his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem- 
Sahib! 

Christine. Mother, muM anything be said to father ? 
Ronny thinks it all depends on her. Can't you use your 
influence ? [Lady Cheshire shakes her head. 

Christine. But, mother, it's desperate. 

Dot. Shut up, Chris! Of course mother can't. We 
simply couldn't beg her to let us off! 

Christine. There must be some way. What do you 
think in your heart, mother ? 

Dot. Leave mother alone! 

Christine. It must be faced, now or never. 

Dot. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect ? 

Christine. We shall be the laughing-stock of the 
whole county. Oh! mother do speak to her! You 



ACT III THE ELDEST SON 61 

know it'll be misery for both of them. [Lady Cheshire 
bows her head] Well, then ? 

[Lady Cheshire shakes her head. 

Christine. Not even for Bill's sake ? 

Dot. Chris! 

Christine. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill 
again, mother! We ought all to go on our knees to him. 

Lady Cheshire. He's with your father now. 

Harold. Poor old Bill! 

Christine. [Passionately] He didn't think of us! 
That wretched girl! 

Lady Cheshire. Chris! 

Christine. There are limits! 

Lady Cheshire. Not to self-control. 

Christine. No, mother! I can't — I never shall — 
Something must be done ! You know what Bill is. He 
rushes at things so, when he gets his head down. Oh! 
do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us! 

Lady Cheshire. [Painfully] There are things one 
can't do. 

Christine. But it's Bill! I know you can make her 
give him up, if you'll only say all you can. And, after 
all, what's coming won't affect her as if she'd been a 
lady. Only you can do it, mother. Do back me up, 
all of you! It's the only way! 

Hypnotised by their private longing for what 
Christine has been urging they have all fixed 
their eyes on Lady Cheshire, who looks from 
face to face, and moves her hands as if in phys- 
ical pain. 



62 THE ELDEST SON act m 

Christine. [Softly] Mother! 

Lady Cheshire suddenly rises, looking towards 
the billiard-room door, listening. They all fol- 
low her eyes. She sits down again, passing her 
hand over her lips, as Sir William enters. His 
hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim 
and set. He walks to the fire without a glance 
at any one, and stands looking down into it. 
Very quietly, every one but Lady Cheshire 
steals away. 
Lady Cheshire. What have you done ? 
Sir William. You there! 
Lady Cheshire. Don't keep me in suspense! 
Sir William. The fool I My God! Dorothy! I didn't 
think I had a blackguard for a son, who was a fool into 
the bargain. 

Lady Cheshire. [Rising] If he were a blackguard 
he would not be what you call a fool. 

Sir William. [After staring angrily, makes her a 
slight bow] Very well! 

Lady Cheshire. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be 
harsh. It's all too terrible. 

Sir William. Sit down, my dear. 

iShe resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire. 
Sir William. In all my life I've never been face to 
face with a thing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so 
hard that his hands and arms are seen shaking] You ask 
me to be calm. I am trying to be. Be good enough in 
turn not to take his part against me. 
Lady Cheshire. Bill! 



ACT III THE ELDEST SON 63 

Sir William. I am trying to think. I understand 
that you've known this— piece of news since this morn- 
ing. I've known it ten minutes. Give me a Httle time, 
please. [Then, after a silence] Where's the girl? 

Lady Cheshire. In the workroom. 

Sir William. [Raising his clenched fist] What in 
God's name is he about ? 

Lady Cheshire. What have you said to him ? 

Sir William. Nothing— by a miracle. [He breaks 
awaijfrom the fire and walks up and down] My family 
goes back to the thirteenth century. Nowadays they 
laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh at 
everything— they even laugh at the word lady— I mar- 
ried ?/oi*, and I don't. . . . Married his mother's maid! 
By George! Dorothy! I don't know what we've done 
to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'm not prepared to 
sit down and wait for it. By Gad ! I am not. [With sud- 
den fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be 

glad enough for this to happen; plenty of these d d 

Socialists and Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over 
what they haven't the bowels to see's a— tragedy. I say 
it would be a tragedy; for you, and me, and all of us. 
You and I were brought up, and we've brought the chil- 
dren up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A 
pan's past— his traditions— he can't get rid of them. 
They're— they're himself! [Suddenlij] It shan't go on. 
Lady Cheshire. What's to prevent it ? 
Sir William. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. 
I'll stop it. 

Lady Cheshire. But the thing we can't stop. 



64 THE ELDEST SON act m 

Sir William. Provision must be made. 

Lady Cheshire. The unwritten law! 

Sir William. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she 

is alluding to] You're thinking of young — young 

[Shortly] I don't see the connection. 

Lady Cheshire. What's so awful, is that the boy's 
trying to do what's loyal — and we — his father and 
mother — ! 

Sir William. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin 
his life. I must think this out. 

Lady Cheshire. [Beneath her breath] I've tried that 
— it doesn't help. 

Sir William. This girl, who was born on the estate, 
had the run of the house — brought up with money earned 
from me — nothing but kindness from all of us; she's 
broken the common rules of gratitude and decency — she 
lured him on, I haven't a doubt! 

Lady Cheshire. [To herself] In a way, I suppose. 

Sir William. What! It's ruin. We've always been 
here. Who the deuce are we if we leave this place? 
D'you think we could stay? Go out and meet every- 
body just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye to 
any prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the 
sort of business nothing can get over. I've seen it be- 
fore. As to that other matter — it's soon forgotten — con- 
stantly happening — Why, my own grandfather ! 

Lady Cheshire. Does he help ? 

Sir William. [Stares before him in silence — suddenly] 
You must go to the girl. She's soft. She'll never hold 
out against you. 



ACT III THE ELDEST SON 65 

Lady Cheshire. I did before I knew what was in 
front of her — I said all I could. I can't go again now. 
I can't do it, Bill. 

Sir William. What are you going to do, then — fold 
your hands? [Then as Lady Cheshire makes a move- 
ment of distress.] If he marries her, I've done with him. 
As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. The title — 
I can't help. My God ! Does that meet your wishes ? 

Lady Cheshire. [With sudden fire] You've no right 
to put such an alternative to me. I'd give ten years of 
my life to prevent this marriage. I'll go to Bill. I'll 
beg him on my knees. 

Sir William. Then why can't you go to the girl? 
She deserves no consideration. It's not a question of 
morality. Morality be d d! 

Lady Cheshire. But not self-respect. 

Sir William. What! You're his mother! 

Lady Cheshire. I've tried; I [putting her hand to 
her throat] can't get it out. 

Sir William. [Staring at her] You won't go to her ? 
It's the only chance. [Lady Cheshire turns away. 

Sir William. In the whole course of our married 
life, Dorothy, I've never known you set yourself up 
against me. I resent this, I warn you — I resent it. 
Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself. 

With a look back at him Lady Cheshire goes 
out into the corridor. 

Sir William. This is a nice end to my day! 

He takes a small china cup from off the mantel- 
piece; it breaks with the pressure of his hand. 



66 THE ELDEST SON act m 

and falls into the fireplace. While he stands 
looking at it blankly ^ there is a knock. 
Sir William. Come in! 

Freda enters from the corridor. 
Sir William. I've asked you to be good enough to 
come, in order that — [pointing to chair] You may sit 
down. 

But though she advances two or three steps, she 
does not sit down. 
Sir William. This is a sad business. 
Freda. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William. 
Sir William. [Becoming conscious of the depths of 
feeling before him] I — er — are you attached to my son ? 
Freda. [In a whisper] Yes. 

Sir William. It's very painful to me to have to do 
this. [He turns away from her and speaks to the fire. 
I sent for you — to — ask — [quickly] How old are you ? 
Freda. Twenty-two. 

Sir William. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to 
— sanction such a mad idea as a marriage ? 
Freda. I don't expect anything. 
Sir William. You know — ^you haven't earned the 
right to be considered. 
Freda. Not yet! 

Sir William. What! That oughtn't to help you! 
On the contrary. Now brace yourseK up, and listen 
to me! 

She stands waiting to hear her sentence. Sir 
William looks at her; and his glance gradu- 
ally wavers. 



ACT III THE ELDEST SON 67 

Sir William. I've not a word to say for my son. 
He's behaved like a scamp. 

Freda. Oh! no! 

Sir William. [With a silencing gesture] At the same 
time — What made you forget yourself? You've no 
excuse, you know. 

Freda. No. 

Sir William. You'll deserve all you'll get. Con- 
found it! To expect me to — It's intolerable! Do 
you know where my son is ? 

Freda. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room 
with my lady. 

Sir William. [With renewed resolution] I wanted to 
— to put it to you — as a — as a — what ! [Seeing her stand 
so absolutely motionless, looking at him, he turns abruptly, 
and opens the billiard-room door] I'll speak to him first. 
Come in here, please! [To Freda] Go in, and wait! 

Lady Cheshire and Bill come in, and Freda 
passing them, goes into the billiard-room to wait. 

Sir William. [Speaking with a pause between each 
sentence] Your mother and I have spoken of this — ca- 
lamity. I imagine that even you have some dim percep- 
tion of the monstrous nature of it. I must tell you this: 
If you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. You'll 
receive nothing from me now or hereafter. I consider 
that only due to the position our family has always held 
here. Your brother will take your place. We shall get 
on as best we can without you. [There is a dead silence, 
till he adds sharply] Well! 

Bill. I shall marry her. 



68 THE ELDEST SON act m 

Lady Cheshire. Oh! Bill! Without love — without 
anything! 

Bill. All right, mother! [To Sir William] You've 
mistaken your man, sir. Because I'm a rotter in one 
way, I'm not necessarily a rotter in all. You put the 
butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head yesterday, 
you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turns 
round to go out] Let the d — d thing off! 

Lady Cheshire. Bill! 

Bill. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in 
the lurch. 

Sir William. Do me the justice to admit that I have 
not attempted to persuade you to. 

Bill. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what 
else you could have done under the circumstances. It's 
quite all right. But if you wanted me to throw her over, 
father, you went the wrong way to work, that's all; 
neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences. 

Sir William. Do you realise your position ? 

Bill. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it. 

Sir William. [With a sudden outburst] You have 
none — not the faintest, brought up as you've been. 

Bill. I didn't bring myself up. 

Sir William. [With a movement of uncontrolled anger, 
to which his son responds] You — ungrateful young dog! 

Lady Cheshire. How can you — both? 

[They drop their eyes, and stand silent. 

Sir William. [With grimly suppressed emotion] I am 
speaking under the stress of very great pain — some con- 
sideration is due to me. This is a disaster which I never 



ACT III THE ELDEST SON 69 

expected to have to face. It is a matter which I natu- 
rally can never hope to forget. I shall carry this down 
to my death. We shall all of us do that. I have had 
the misfortune all my life to believe in our position here 
— to believe that we counted for something — that the 
country wanted us. I have tried to do my duty by that 
position. I find in one moment that it is gone — smoke 
— gone. My philosophy is not equal to that. To coun- 
tenance this marriage would be unnatural. 

Bill. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this — 
I don't see any other way out. It's a bad business for 

me, father, as well as for you 

He stopsy seeing that Jackson has come in, and 
is standing there waiting. 

Jackson. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir 
WiUiam ? It's about young Dunning. 

After a moment of dead silence^ Sir William 
nods^ and the butler withdraws. 

Bill. [Stolidly] He'd better be told. 

Sir William. He shall be. 

Studdenham enters, and touches his forehead to 
them all with a comprehensive gesture. 

Studdenham. Good evenin', my lady! Evenin', Sir 
WiUiam! 

Studdenham. Glad to be able to tell you, the young 
man's to do the proper thing. Asked me to let you 
know. Sir William. Banns'll be up next Sunday. 
[Struck by the silence, he looks round at all three in turn, 
and suddenly seeing that Lady Cheshire is shivering] 
Beg pardon, my lady, you're shakin' hke a leaf! 



70 THE ELDEST SON act m 

Bill. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news 
for you, Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. 
We're to be married at once. 

Studdenham. I — don't — understand you — sir. 

Bill. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean 
to put it straight. 

Studdenham. I'm a little deaf. Did you say — my 
daughter ? 

Sir William. There's no use mincing matters, Stud- 
denham. It's a thunderbolt — young Dunning's case 
over again. 

Studdenham. I don't rightly follow. She's — 
You've — ! I must see my daughter. Have the good- 
ness to send for her, m'lady. 

Lady Cheshire goes to the billiard-roomy and 
calls: "Freda, come here, please." 

Studdenham. [To Sir William] You tell me that 
my daughter's in the position of that girl owing to your 
son ? Men ha' been shot for less. 

Bill. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham — 
you're welcome. 

Studdenham. [Averting his eyes from Bill at the 
sheer idiocy of this sequel to his words] I've been in your 
service five and twenty years. Sir William; but this is 
man to man — this is! 

Sir William. I don't deny that, Studdenham. 

Studdenham. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger] 
No — 'twouldn't be very easy. Did I understand him 
to say that he offers her marriage ? 

Sir William. You did. 



ACTin THE ELDEST SON 71 

Studdenham. [Into his beard] Well— that's some- 
thing! [Moving his hands as if wringing the neck of a 
bird] I'm tryin' to see the rights o' this. 

Sir William. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out 
for you, Studdenham. 

Again Studdenham maJces the unconscious 
wringing movement with his hands. 

Lady Cheshire. [Turning from it with a sort of hor- 
ror] Don't, Studdenham! Please! 

Studdenham. What's that, m'lady ? 

Lady Cheshire. [Under her breath] Your— your— 

hands. 

While Studdenham is still staring at her, Freda 

is seen standing in the doorwatj, like a black 

ghost. 

Studdenham. Come here! You! [Freda moves a 

few steps towards her father] When did you start 

this? 

Freda. [Almost inaudiblij] In the summer, father. 

Lady Cheshire. Don't be harsh to her! 

Studdenham. Harsh! [His eyes again Tnove from 
side to side as if pain and anger had bewildered them. 
Then looking sideways at Freda, but in a gentler voice] 
And when did you tell him about— what's come to 
you? 

Freda. Last night. 

Studdenham. Oh! [With sudden menace] You 

young ! [He makes a convulsive movement of one 

hand; then, in the silence, seems to lose grip of his 
thoughts, and puts his hand up to his head] I want to 



72 THE ELDEST SON act m 

clear me mind a bit — I don't see it plain at all. [With- 
out looking at Bill] 'Tis said there's been an offer of 
marriage ? 

Bill. I've made it, I stick to it. 

Studdenham. Oh! [With slow ^ puzzled anger] I want 
time to get the pith o' this. You don't say anything, 
Sir William? 

Sir William. The facts are all before you. 

Studdenham. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady ? 

[Lady Cheshire is silent. 

Studdenham. [Stammering] My girl was — was good 
enough for any man. It's not for him that's — that's — 
to look down on her. [To Freda] You hear the hand- 
some offer that's been made you? Well? [Freda 
moistens her lips and tries to speaks but cannot] If 
nobody's to speak a word, we won't get much for- 
rarder. I'd like for you to say what's in your mind. 
Sir William. 

Sir William. I — If my son marries her he'll have to 
make his own way. 

Studdenham. [Savagely] I'm not puttin' thought to 
that. 

Sir William. I didn't suppose you were, Studden- 
ham. It appears to rest with your daughter. [He sud- 
denly takes out his handkerchief, and puts it to his fore- 
head] Infernal fires they make up here! 

Lady Cheshire, who is again shivering desper- 
ately, as if with intense cold, makes a violent 
attempt to control her shuddering. 



ACT III THE ELDEST SON 73 

Studdenham. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got 
to be paid for. [To Freda] Speak up, now. 

Freda turns slowly and looks up at Sir William; 
he involuntarily raises his hand to his mouth. 
Her eyes travel on to Lady Cheshire, who 
faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as 
if she xvere going to faint. The girVs gaze 
passes on to Bill, standing rigid, with his 
jaw set. 
Freda. I want — [Then flinging her arm up over her 
eyes, she turns from him] No! 
Sir William. Ah! 

At that sound of profound relief, Studdenham, 
whose eyes have been following his daughter's, 
moves towards Sir William, all his emotion 
turned into sheer angry pride. 
Studdenham. Don't be afraid. Sir William! We 
want none of you ! She'll not force herself where she's 
not welcome. She may ha' slipped her good name, but 
she'll keep her proper pride. I'll have no charity mar- 
riage in my family. 

Sir William. Steady, Studdenham! 
Studdenham. If the young gentleman has tired of 
her in three months, as a blind man can see by the 
looks of him — she's not for him! 

Bill. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to 
her. 

Studdenham. Keep back, there.? [He takes hold of 
Freda, and looks around him] Well! She's not the 
first this has happened to since the world began, 



74 THE ELDEST SON act m 

an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come 
away! 

Taking Freda by the sJtoulders, he guides her 
towards the door. 

Sir William. D n it, Studdenham! Give us 

credit for something! 

Studdenham. [Turning — his face and eyes lighted up 
by a sort of smiling snarl] Ah ! I do that, Sir WilHam. 
But there's things that can't be undone! 

[He follows Freda out. 
As the door closes. Sir William's calm gives way. 
He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, 
as though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. 
'Bill,, following Freda and Studdenham, has 
stopped at the shut door. Lady Cheshire 
moves swiftly close to him. The door of the 
billiard-room is opened, and Dot appears. With 
a glance round, she crosses quickly to her mother. 
Dot. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! 

[Almost whispering] Where's Freda? Is it Has 

she really had the pluck ? 

Lady Cheshire bending her head for " Yes,'' 
goes out into the billiard-room. Dot clasps her 
hands together, and standing there in the middle 
of the room, looks from her brother to her father, 
from her father to her brother. A quaint little 
pitying smile comes on her lips. She gives a 
faint shrug of her shoulders. 

The curtain falls. 



NOV 26 1912 



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